the Lonesome Gods (1983) Read online

  He pulled up in the yard and stepped down, then lifted me from the saddle, although I could slide down and did not want to be picked up like a baby.

  "Do you know anyone who knows the stories about Tahquitz to be true?" I asked.

  He brushed his mustache with his fingers. "Well, now. Can't say as I do, but then, the Injuns been here longer than us and they may know a lot we'll never learn. Knowledge isn't a lasting thing. Not unless it's writ down in a good many places. People die, and what they learned often dies with them. Whole races of folks that once lived are now gone, and what they knew we'll not be able to guess at.

  "I'm not a book-read man, boy. I never had no proper eddication, but I've listened to those who have had and to those who've traveled.

  "Take your pa, now. He's a widely read man. He was a sailor onetime. You know that. He was a sailor on his papa's ship, so he had access to his papa's books, and there were times at sea when he could read.

  "He first went to sea when he was twelve, as cabin boy with his pa. He went to a lot of places with fancy names that just the sound of them makes you want to r'ar up an' go. Places like Shanghai, Rangoon, Gorontalo, Capetown, and the like. Your pa had seven years at sea, mostly in foreign parts.

  "You've heard him talk. He's got a way about him, a way with words. He can make the temple bells tinkle for you, and you can just hear them big old elephants shuffshuffling along, the priests callin' folks to prayer and the like.

  "Your pa learned a sight of things most folks never even hear of. I've seen scholars back off an' look at your pa, amazed.

  "You take these Injuns, now. You look at the way they live and you'll say they don't amount to much, but what are they thinkin'? What do they know? What memories do they have? They want different things, boy, and they consider different things important. Many a thing we'd give anything to know, they just take for granted.

  "Some of these Injuns, maybe all of them, they're in tune with something. I don't know what. But some of them have lost touch with it, and others are losin' touch. Goin' the white folks' way might seem the likely thing to do, but maybe they lose as much as they gain."

  Papa rode into the yard, sat his horse for a moment as if he was gathering strength, and then he dismounted, stepping down very carefully.

  "I'll put up the horses, Zack. You'll find a candle on the table just inside the door. To the right of the door." There were three rooms, two very small bedrooms and a large, square living room and kitchen combined. There was a very large fireplace, a table, benches on each side of it, and two chairs. One of the chairs was very large, almost twice the size of any I had seen.

  My father stopped, lighted candle in hand, and stared at that chair.

  The floor was made of odd sizes of stone beautifully fitted together. No mortar had been used, but the stones were fitted with knifelike precision.

  "There's nothing much here at Agua Caliente," Peter Burkin explained when he came in. "There's the hot springs to which the Injuns been comin' for a couple of thousand years, I reckon. There's a stage station, but no stages yet, and it's a kind of two-bit store an' post office. Mail comes in ever' once in a while, sometimes as often as ever' two months.

  "There's two or three white men in camp, an' there's the Injuns, mostly Cahuillas." He looked at me. "That's the way they say it, Ka-wee-ya. Some folks call them Agua Calientes, from the name of the village.

  "There's more of them back in the mountains. In the Santa Rosas.

  "They know you, Zack, so they'll be friendly, which means you won't see much of them, but they'll not do you any harm, either. As long as you live in this house, none of them are likely to come around."

  "What's wrong with the house? It seems uncommonly well-made."

  "You won't find a better anywhere about. Not even in Los Angeles. The stable out back is built just as well. There's a spring, cold water, that's runnin' into a fine stone basin, made by the same hands.

  "Nobody's lived here for years, though. The house is considered bad medicine. They'll think you a strong man for even livin' here."

  Burkin went back outside and brought their blanket rolls into the house.

  "Peter? I can't thank you enough."

  "Thank me? You done that years ago when you pulled me from under that grizzly." He turned to me. "I was gettin' thawed an' clawed somethin' fierce when your papa came along. He kilt that b'ar an' then he taken me to his camp an' kep' me there until I was able to get around. I was laid up for more than a month, an' your papa put off what he was doin' an' cared for me."

  Peter Burkin rode away and I watched him go. Already the sky was faintly gray, and I could see the stark black outline of his figure against the white of the sand dunes. My father was lying down, and from his breathing, was asleep. Although I had been awake most of the night, I was not tired.

  What was it about this house? Why did no one want to live here? Again I looked at that huge chair. Was it that? Did the sight of that chair frighten people away?

  Everything about the house was cunningly made. The closets and shelves were cut and fitted with the same precision as the tiles in the flagstone floor. Part of the house was very old. I could see where someone had begun rebuilding it, building up a wall here, opening a window there. An existing ruin had been taken and added to, walls rebuilt, a roof put on, floor added ... or part of a floor.

  Out back there was not only a stable but a corral. There were two horses there, left for our use.

  My father had taken off his gun belt and hung it over a chair back close to his hand. His rifle and his shotgun were there, too. There was a blanket hung in the doorway, and I tiptoed back and let the blanket down to cover the door.

  This was my home now. For how long, I did not know, for it seemed that now I was not to go to that fierce old man of whom I was so much afraid.

  On the table there was a loaf of bread, and beside it a knife. I went to it and cut off a thick slice. With the bread in my hand I went back to the outer door again and looked out upon the yard.

  All around it was that living fence of ocotillo with its fierce thorns. There had been rain, so now there was a mist of green leaves along each cane, and a few bright crimson flowers. I stood there, taking bites of the bread and looking out at the yard of white sand.

  Where the opening in the ocotillo fence was stood a thick clump of greasewood. I glanced at it, started to look away, then looked quickly back.

  Something was there! From behind the bush I could see a bare foot, a foot almost the color of the sand, and the bottom of a pants leg of white.

  Lifting my eyes, I found myself staring into other eyes, very black eyes.

  It was a boy, no older than myself.

  Chapter 12

  Torn between fear and curiosity, I waited, my heart pounding. The strange boy crouched, peering through the leaves at me. I was afraid.

  No! I was not afraid! "I am Johannes Verne," I told myself, "and I am not afraid."

  The boy looked to be no older than I, and no larger. I knew I could lick him. Then I looked again as the boy slowly emerged from behind the bush. The boy looked brown and strong. He looked like a very rough boy. Maybe I could not lick him.

  He wore a wide hat of straw, somewhat torn, and a faded blue shirt that hung outside his pants, which were of white cotton. The boy was barefoot.

  "Hello," I said.

  "Buenos dtas."

  He came a step nearer. I did not know what to do. Trying to appear indifferent, I squatted and took up a twig. With the twig I drew a round head with long hair hanging down. Then I drew a hat on the head. I did not know what to say or do. I had known few children of my own age and did not know what they did. I added eyes and eyebrows, then ears to the picture.

  "What do you do?" The boy spoke in English, although with a strange sound to it.

  "It is a picture."

  He leaned over, studying it. "Is it me?"

  "It is."

  "The mouth? It has no mouth. I have a mouth." I extended the twi
g. "Here. You draw."

  He took the twig and drew a mouth like a new moon with the ends turned up. It was a smiling mouth. "Good! It is finished," I said.

  We squatted side by side, looking at our drawing with some satisfaction.

  "You live close by?"

  "I live where I am."

  "You have a house?"

  The boy gestured vaguely. "Over there." Then, proudly: "I am Francisco."

  "I am Johannes. I am usually called Hann-ess." The boy shrugged. "What else?"

  He was a strange boy. I did not know what to think of him. I asked, "Where do you go?"

  "I go nowhere. I am here." The boy paused. "And you? You will live here?"

  "I do not know. We were to go to Los Angeles, but there is trouble for us there."

  "Stay here, if you are not afraid."

  "I am not afraid. I am Johannes." Then, after a minute: "Afraid of what?"

  "The house. Nobody stays in that house. It is the house of Tahquitz."

  "What?" I was astonished. I pointed to the mountains. "There is the house of Tahquitz."

  Changing the subject, I asked, "Your home is here?" Francisco shrugged. "My home is where I am. Sometimes it is in the mountains. Often it is the desert." "You are not afraid of Indians?"

  He stared at me. "I am Indian. I am Cahuilla." I was astonished. "You? An Indian?"

  "I am Cahuilla."

  "Why do you say this is the house of Tahquitz?" "Much time ago my people went away into the desert to live. There had been rains and it was good there, but when they returned, this house was here, and it was lived in.

  "Nobody saw he who lived here. Only ... sometimes at night they saw something ... somebody. Then it went away and came no more. It was whispered that Tahquitz had come to this house. That he built it with his hands." "It is a good house."

  "What will you do if he comes back?"

  "He will come back?"

  Francisco shrugged. "Who knows? It has been long." "There was a house before," I suggested. "Part of this house was an older house."

  "Who knows? Perhaps."

  Francisco squatted by the step. I sat on the step. "I have a horse," I said proudly.

  "Of course. Who does not?"

  "Someday we will ride."

  Francisco took a stick and poked at the ground. From time to time he looked uneasily at the half-open door. "The mountain is large," I said. "Is it far to the other side?"

  "It is far. Two times I have gone with my papa. We go for the chia that grows in a valley there. It grows many places, but not so much as in the valley. Once, the first time, there was fighting. There were others who wished all the chia for themselves. We gathered chia. Some chia." "Is this your land?"

  Francisco shrugged. "It is land. We come here. Sometimes we do not come for a long time. When it is hot, we stay in the mountains, where there is coolness."

  "You speak well."

  "It is nothing. In the store it is only your talk. My papa speaks much with people. He teaches me to speak." "Last night at Indian Wells, when it was very dark, I went down to drink. There was an Indian there. He did not speak."

  Francisco stood up. "I go now."

  "You will come back?"

  "I go."

  He walked away, slowly at first, then faster. He did not look back.

  When I went back inside, the room was light, and for the first time I could really see the floor. It was astonishing in its simple beauty. Around the outer edge was an intricate design and in the middle a black bird with its wings stretched, a bird like a crow.

  Sitting down on the bench, I looked at the design. The details of the feathers in the wings was amazing, and the bird had small red stones for eyes.

  My father spoke from his bedroom. "Is it you, Hannes? Are you all right?"

  "I am looking at the bird."

  "I heard you talking, I think."

  "It was Francisco. He is an Indian. He is my friend ... I think."

  He came from the bedroom and closed the outer door. "After the sun is up, it is better to keep the door closed so it will be cool inside." He put his hand on my shoulder as he so often did. "It is good to have a friend." He glanced down at the floor for the first time. "Well, I'll be damned," he said.

  Squatting on his heels, he studied the floor. He ran his fingertips over the floor. "Beautiful!" he said. "Simply beautiful!"

  "It was Tahquitz. This was his house."

  My father looked up sharply. "What do you mean? His house?"

  "Francisco told me. Nobody will live here because this is the house of Tahquitz. He built it, they say, but when they returned, he went away and did not come back." "Tahquitz? What was he like, this Tahquitz?"

  "They did not see him. Only in the night."

  My father was thoughtful, but he studied the floor again as if he would find in its design the face of its maker. He pointed to the design that formed the border. "That purplish stone. That's jasper. It comes in several colors. This is chalcedony. Both stones can be found in some of the canyons near the desert.

  "It is fine work. This Tahquitz or whoever it was is a fine craftsman. I should like to know him."

  "You do not believe it was Tahquitz?"

  He did not reply for a moment, and then he said, "This work is finely done by a man who loves what he is doing. I should like to know him."

  Slowly the days went by and became weeks. Sometimes I played in the yard, making friends with a very small blue lizard, and sometimes I wandered in the sand dunes. My father rested in the morning sun, stayed inside when afternoon came, and he read from the books Peter Burkin provided. Sometimes my father walked with me after the sun had gone down. Whenever we met Indians, they spoke to him respectfully, but they did not come to our house.

  My father did not leave the house without his pistol. "If you see any strangers, Hannes, come to me at once. I must know."

  Another time he took me to the fireplace, where he had loosened a brick. Behind it was an iron box.

  "Tell nobody of this. Not your best friend, nor my best friend. In this box there is money. I have saved it since before you were born. If I should die or be killed, get this out, put the box and the brick back carefully, and hide the money. You will need it."

  Later, after he had been reading to me from Quentin Durward, by Sir Walter Scott, I asked him if we would go to Los Angeles now.

  "Not now. Perhaps later. Peter was right. The air and the sun are good for me. I feel better and I have coughed much less."

  "Will they come to look for us?"

  "Yes, Hannes, they will. Do not forget them, ever. He is an old devil, that one. He will come, but now he is waiting, like the cat with the mouse. He is letting us get over being careful, when we think he will not come at all, then he will come."

  My father looked at the bird in the center of the floor. "It is a raven," he said, "and that is a curious thing. "Far to the south, farther yet than where we came to the Yuma trail, there is a place in the mountains called the House of Ravens. Only the Indians know it, but these later Indians do not often go there."

  "What is there?"

  "Wait. Someday when I am feeling better, I will take you there. It is well not to go unless you are with an Indian."

  He would say no more, and this I had learned of my father: when he ceased to speak, questions would lead him to speak no more. "You will be told in time. First, you have much to learn."

  Later, when seated in the sun, he said, "This is an ancient land, older by far than the scholars believe. They trifle with years. They say that before this, nobody was here. They say the Indians have been here but a short time, and for some of them, that is true.

  "There have been men here for a million years and more. Before the great ice came, there were men here--and before the ice that was here before that. The wise men among us smile and say no, that men have been on this continent but a short time.

  "Who are they to say? Have they dug deeply enough? Have they looked in all the corners? Bah, they have s
carcely scratched the surface! They have a Garden of Eden complex, believing that all men came from one source!"

  He coughed slightly, waited for a moment, and then said, "There are writings on the rocks, and some of the writings are from Indians whom we know, or their immediate ancestors. Others come from a time far earlier, or have been borrowed from an earlier time. The Indians, just as we, have learned from those who passed this way before.

  "And there have been travelers, ships have come here many times, both from Europe and Asia. Chinese junks have come to our shores even in my time."

  He sat silent, staring out the window at the mountains. "If they have come in my time, why not before? "And they have, indeed they have! You must learn to read Spanish, my son. I mean better than you do. Your mother started you, and you speak very well, but to read is better, for there are records.

  "Father Salmeron tells of some Spanish soldiers encountering some Asiatics on the shores of the Gulf of California, who were trading with the Indians there, and seemed to think it no great thing, as if they had done so for years. He also speaks of Chinese ships making a landfall on the California coast."

  My father sat silent, muttering a little. Then he sat up violently. "Confound it, son! You must have an education! It is time you were in school, but here there is no school! In Los Angeles ...

  "I must forget that. It is impossible. But read. There are books here, read them, all of them. Find others. Many a man has done well with no more of an education that what he can have by reading.

  "Your friend Francisco. He is an Indian and will know much you do not."

  And when a month had gone by, Peter Burkin returned. He rode swiftly, watching over his shoulder. "Be warned," he said, "they are coming."

  Chapter 13

  Thank you, Peter. Come in, please, and sit down. Will you have a cup of coffee?" "There's no time, Zack! They can't be more than a mile or two behind me!"

  "There's time. Turn your horse into the corral and come in." He lifted his own cup, and his hand was steady. "How many are there?"